


Five Times Heimdall Removed His Helm (and One Time He Didn't)

by Unpretty



Series: Magical Girl Avengers [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avengers AU, F/M, Five Times, Gen, Magical Girl Avengers, genderbent au, magical girl au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/pseuds/Unpretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki Odinsdóttir has a complex relationship with Heimdall's helm. Also, with Heimdall. These stories take place before the events of Magical Girl Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

The first time Heimdall stopped Loki from crossing the Bifröst, she was not quite taller than his waist.

"And where do you think you're going, Odinsdóttir?" he asked, holding her still by her shoulder, never looking away from the sky that he guarded. He did not need to look at her to see that her eyes were red, her face raw where she had rubbed away the tears. Even so, her jaw was set, her head held high.

"Jotunheim," she said, defiant, as if this was an answer to anything at all.

"Oh?" He could hear Thor sparring with his little sister, could hear the clang of their weapons and the sound of their laughter. They were so alike, those two: boisterous warriors, close as sisters. Close as sisters ought to have been. One did not need to be all-seeing to see where the trouble lay.

Being all-seeing certainly didn't hurt, however.

"Will you lay waste to the frost giants, and prove yourself the greatest warrior in Asgard?" he asked, as if this were a perfectly reasonable question to ask a young girl. He considered her nature, the blood of which she had no knowledge still, weighed his next words carefully. "Or will you raise yourself an army of Jotun, and turn them against those who have done you wrong?"

"I am no warrior," she spat, fists white-knuckled at her sides. "And I am no traitor. I shall go to Jotunheim, and the giants will roast my flesh and suck the marrow from my bones, and when I am dead the people of Asgard will realize the hole that has been left in their hearts for the loss of me. They will gnash their teeth and tear out their hair, but none of it will be enough to save them from the agony of their regret."

Heimdall considered this.

"That is certainly one approach," he admitted, and still his face was to the sky. "You will, however, be dead."

"It would be worth it," she snarled, and he could hear that she believed it. Her hurt and her rage turned her heart to ice in her chest, with all the depth of feeling only a child could allow herself.

"You realize, of course, that you have formulated a plan such that it can only possibly hurt those that love you."

That brought her pause, though she tried to hide it. "Well _I_ do not love _them_ ," she lied, with a sniffle of disdain.

"You lie poorly, little Silvertongue."

" _I_ lie very well. _You_ are bad at being lied to."

The corner of Heimdall's mouth twitched. He sighed, and in the cold air he seemed almost to exhale stardust. "You are going to be the death of me," he murmured.

"You think too highly of yourself," the little princess scoffed, and the corner of his mouth twitched again.

"Sit, Loki Odinsdóttir, and perhaps we can find a solution to your problems that does not require that the marrow be sucked from your bones."

Loki hesitated. Heimdall – though she would never admit it – made her _nervous_. She was not aware of his having a personality, any more than a wall might. Thor seemed to think of him like an uncle, or perhaps like an older brother, as he was to Sif. But Loki was not like her sister; Loki was a mischief-maker, a teller of lies. Odin would threaten her, sometimes, that if he thought she was playing a prank he would bring in Heimdall to catch her in it. Heimdall could see her soul, Odin said, could see if her thoughts were wicked.

Frigga said she should pay him no mind, but that did not stop Loki from worrying.

She sat, finally, pulling her skirts over her crossed legs and tucking them beneath her for modesty. Frigga scolded her against sitting cross-legged, and Loki considered this a reasonable compromise – so long as her mother wasn't looking, at any rate. It felt less like sitting at the feet of a man, and more like sitting in the shade of a tree. "What do you know of my problems, Heimdall Golden-toothed?"

"Why do you think that they will not spar with you, little one? Why do you think they do not laugh with you, as they do with each other?"

Loki hated him, in that moment, for all that he could see. "They are _jealous_ ," she snarled. "They _fear_ me. They know that I am cleverer than they – Thor and Sif and the Warriors Three, more clever than all of them together."

"There are different ways to be clever, Odinsdóttir. You are not so clever with an axe as Thor, nor as clever as Sif with a sword." Loki flushed, disliking to be reminded of her own shortcomings. "They do not wish to hurt you with their weapons, but you do not hesitate to lash them with your words."

"I would not insult them by suggesting that they were too weak to stand against me," she said, defensive.

"They insult you by trying to protect you, and so you flatter them with cruelties? Your cleverness astounds." She almost thought that he was joking, but there was no sign of it in his face or his voice. Her nostrils flared with annoyance, and she pushed his leg as if to knock him over. Heimdall continued, stubbornly, to stand.

"You dare to mock a daughter of Odin? You are _thickheaded_."

"I _am_ Heimdall Golden-toothed."

She paused, at that. It had not occurred to her, in her few years, to wonder why he was so-called. " _Golden-toothed_ means you are a dullard?"

His mouth twitched again, and he looked down for the first time at the child by his feet. Her eyes widened in alarm, as if his gaze was somehow dangerous. "It means," he corrected, "that I am as a ram."

Loki paused, then squinted, as if trying to see beneath his helm. "You... are woolly?"

Heimdall turned his face away, and so she did not see his almost-smile. He looked to Jotunheim, where the frost giants made no move to attack; he looked to Asgard, where the children played and Odin sat with Frigga. "As a ram," he explained finally, removing his helm and turning back to her, "as in I have sturdy a skull." To illustrate his point, he tapped gently on it with one knuckle.

Loki's eyes were round as saucers. It was not the first time she had seen him without his helm, but it was certainly the first time he had removed it for _her_. It was as incongruous as if her father removed his eyepatch. "A strange way to acquire a name," she said, brow furrowed as she considered his head. It did not _look_ particularly ram-like.

"I am also fleet of foot, steady and sturdy with keen senses." His tone was not that of a man boasting, but it seemed a little boastful to Loki. She had not been aware that the ram was known for anything but its horns.

"Should you not then have horns?"

Heimdall looked to the helm in his hands. "Do I not?"

"They are not _proper_ horns," she scoffed, with the absolute certainty of a child.

"You shall have to ask your father," he said seriously, "why he does not make me a helm with _proper_ horns." He placed the apparently deficient helm back on his head, and Loki still found it not-at-all adequate at conveying the notion of a ram.

"I will also ask why he cannot give you a better name," she said, as she stood and began straightening her skirts.

"Better than Heimdall Golden-toothed, Wind Shelter, Bent-Stick, Guardian of Asgard, Son of Nine Mothers?"

"... that is too many names. And too many mothers." Loki looked back to Asgard, and hesitated.

"Ready to rejoin your comrades?"

"They are _not_ my comrades. Because you have begged it of me, however, I shall deign to forgive their trespasses and grace them with my presence." Loki – being a child – was often assumed to have not yet fully grasped social mores. It was simply accepted that she, like so many children, could not help sometimes being an obnoxious brat.

This was not at all true. Loki knew very well that she was being obnoxious, and she found it _hilarious_.

Heimdall turned his face to Jotunheim, the light of the Bifröst reflecting off his face. "Be careful," he warned. "They may take advantage of your generous nature."

Loki waited until she was inside to laugh, but Heimdall heard her anyway.


	2. Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sif seems a bit overprotective of her brother, it is only because she knows who's fated to kill him.

Heimdall found Loki Odinsdóttir sitting on a rarely used flight of stairs, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. She had turned her face, but she knew that he could see the blackening around her eye, just as she had known that he would be able to find her here.

"If you are looking for your helm," she said haughtily, " _Sif_ has already recovered it for you. You need not trouble yourself with my _loathsome_ presence."

"And why should I need to look for my helm," he asked, surprising her by sitting alongside her, "when I have such a fine helm already?" In his hands was not his usual golden helm, but instead a poorly knitted thing of wool, with two crudely attached ram's horns. Though in poor mood, Loki nearly smiled.

"It was meant in jest," she assured him. "I'd not have troubled you, had I known."

"About?" he asked.

"Ragnarok," she clarified, though she was sure he had only asked as a formality.

Heimdall sighed, and Loki wondered what he was looking at, his eyes turned in the direction of the sky. "I must speak with Sif; it was not her place to trouble you with such things."

"So it is true?"

"It is prophesied," he corrected, which was essentially the same as far as Loki was concerned.

She had grown taller these last few years, it was true; but she was gangly and soft, not solidly built like her sister or Sif. A child in figure and stature, for all that she was changing. She could not imagine, even with her magic, that she might someday be able to bring down Heimdall. _Heimdall!_ Heimdall, who was more a fortress than a man, who had felled giants before Loki had yet been born. To kill such a man – it was easier to imagine the reverse.

"Ought I heed Sif's warning?" Loki asked. "Shall I stay away, for your fear of me?"

"I do not fear you, little Silvertongue."

"You do not believe that we shall kill one another?" she asked, a touch too hopeful.

Heimdall sighed again, and her heart sank. "I have heard it," he said simply.

"Your ears cannot be so sharp as to hear the future," she scoffed, though she was not as certain as she sounded.

"They were – but no longer." He tapped his left ear, and as Loki looked closer she realized that it was heavily scarred; maimed, but not by a deadly blow. She had not noticed it before, hidden beneath his helm.

"You did not do this to _yourself_ ," she said more than asked, incredulous. "Why would you wish to lose such a gift?"

"All power comes with a price. You should know this well, Odinsdóttir." His eyes turned to her, and she wished she knew what it was he was looking for. Could he see some darkness inside her, some wickedness that would one day be his downfall? "I did not like what I heard."

Loki imagined the sound of her own death echoing in her ears. "Well _I_ did not hear it," she said finally, defiant. "You must have misunderstood, for I certainly have no plans to kill you."

"We cannot know the roads our hearts will take," he warned, though he seemed amused – insofar as he ever seemed amused.

" _Mine_ shall remain safely in my chest, where hearts _belong_. I am not one to let vital parts of my anatomy go wandering."

"And I am?" Heimdall asked, and Loki felt her face turn hot even as she tried to pretend that the innuendo had been intentional.

"I would not presume to know such things – _Bent Stick_."

Heimdall coughed suddenly, and Loki wondered if she'd almost made him laugh. She felt a spark of pride, a small fire lit in her heart that made her blood run strangely hot.

"I shall not kill you, Heimdall Golden-toothed," she declared. "I swear it on my honor as Loki Odinsdóttir."

What was the look that flickered through his golden eyes, as he turned his face upward? "Then it is only fair," he said, "that Loki Odinsdóttir shall never know the feel of my blade."

She examined his words for loopholes despite herself, though of course she found none. He did not get to be Odin's right eye through trickery. It was why it had seemed so terrifyingly plausible, that he might one day be her undoing – she, who had nothing _but_ trickery. "Shall you let your bodyguard know that she need no longer protect you from me?" she asked lightly, not fooling him at all.

To her surprise, Heimdall took her chin in his hand and turned her face, as if he needed it to get a better look at the bruising. She did an admirable job, she thought, of not swatting him away. "Sif acted out of turn, to so strike a daughter of Odin. He shall be most displeased, when he learns of it." He released her, and she scrunched her nose at the thought of her father. Though she did not get along with Sif, it would do her no favors among her peers to see Sif punished.

"Do you not think he will be flattered?" she asked, weaving something small from magic between her fingertips. They turned cold as they worked – but they always did, and so she did not bother to wonder at it. Magic, perhaps, was simply a cold thing. She produced a patch with a flourish, placed it over the blackened eye. " _I_ think the family resemblance is stunning."

The corner of Heimdall's mouth twitched.

"You almost smiled!" she gasped, clapping her hands together with delight. Heimdall looked away, but it was too late. "Oh, no you don't! I saw it, you _can_ smile. I have you now." With the sort of determination that she only seemed to feel when it came to amusing herself, she covered the lower half of her face with her hands; there was a fluttering cold like snowflakes, and then she pulled them away to reveal a bushy black beard. In the deepest voice she could manage, she intoned: "Responsibility! Duty! Honor!"

Heimdall covered his mouth with one hand.

"That's cheating!" Loki accused, and she attempting to shove his shoulder; it was, inevitably, ineffective. "You needn't bother, I can tell that I made you laugh. You are a poor liar, Golden-teeth."

"You look like a dwarf," he said finally, stroking his chin as if that had been his hand's purpose all along.

"I am neither short nor broad enough," she protested with a disdainful sniffle, though her dignity was somewhat impaired by the beard.

"An unusually tall and hungry dwarf," he amended. "You realize that Odin will think that you mock him, of course."

This brought Loki up short. "I shan't be keeping the beard for dinner, _obviously_ ," she said, though it had not occurred to her. She pressed her hands to her face… but the cold did not come. After a moment, she began tugging at the beard, to little effect. "It's stuck," she admitted finally, and it was difficult to stay mortified when it was also – undeniably – _hilarious_.

Heimdall covered his mouth again, and Loki kicked him and pretended it didn't hurt.

Loki sighed, less upset than she would have been had she been older and more conscious of her looks. "There is nothing to be done for it," she said, resigned. "I shall have to braid it, and convince my sister of her inferiority in not having grown her beard yet. My father has no grown daughters; mayhap if I am diligent, I can convince him that all girls go through such a phase."

"A cunning plan," Heimdall said with a nod, stroking his chin again. "I do not know that Frigga will be convinced to support your claims, however."

"Nonetheless," she said, "it is the best plan available to me."

"Perhaps you would be better served by his attention being elsewhere," Heimdall suggested.

"A distraction?" she mused. "And what would you know of distractions, Heimdall the all-seeing?"

With a dignity and gravitas that ought to have been impossible, Heimdall pulled the dreadful helm that Loki had made onto his head. She cackled in a manner that would have been unbecoming if she had not already been wearing an eyepatch and voluminous facial hair. It looked as if Heimdall had scalped a very asymmetrical sheep, and was now wearing it as a warning to others. "What do you think?" he asked, very seriously. "Does it well suit Heimdall Golden-toothed?"

"Were you to battle in such a helm," Loki said, trying to match his deadpan tone, "your enemies would tremble before you, knowing that they face a man with too little sense to be defeated."

"Then let us away to dinner, Odinsdóttir," he said as he stood, "to do battle with Odin's good sense."


	3. Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki has been known to suffer from selective hearing.

"Have you no better things to do, little Silvertongue?"

"I _wish_ you would stop calling me that," Loki laughed. "I am not so little, any longer." She practically skipped her way to Heimdall's side, though he as usual remained unmoving. "Old enough for battle," she reminded him, flush with excitement and pride – and just a touch of Odin's mead. She was happier than Heimdall had ever seen her, and though she would never admit it, it was her sister's doing. Thor had acknowledged the value of Loki's magical skill, of her superior tactical mind. Frigga had long assured Loki that her skills were great, but it had not held as much weight in her heart as this. Had it been Odin's words, Loki's feet might not have touched the ground.

"Older and taller than you _were_ , perhaps," Heimdall acknowledged, "but still not so old, or so tall."

"It is unfair to make such unreasonable comparisons," she said, though she tried to stand taller next to him. "You may as well compare me to Yggdrasil."

"May I? Then you are _very_ small, and _very_ young. You harbor charmingly few squirrels, however."

Loki, as ever, latched only onto whatever small thing held her interest. "So you admit that I am charming!" she said, clasping her hands behind her back and looking entirely too smug.

"You have grown too clever with words," he chided, but Loki was not embarrassed.

"It is for you that I have grown so," she pointed out. "I cannot simply lie, can I? You would catch me in it."

"My intent was never that you learn to tell dishonest truths," he sighed.

"And what _was_ your intent, Heimdall? Did you think that you could scold the mischief from me, as father had so often tried?"

"One could no more take the mischief from you, Odinsdóttir, than one could take the stars from the sky."

"Would it not make your work easier, were there fewer stars to watch?"

"Easier, perhaps," he agreed, "but it would not be a sky worth watching." Before Loki could wonder whether that was a compliment, he turned his eyes to her. "Why are you here?"

Her heart seemed to tighten, as if trying to make itself small enough to hide from the light of his gaze. "My armor for the upcoming battle needs to be made," she said, "and I must decide what is to be done for my helm." That part, at least, was not a lie. "I thought perhaps that I could see how yours suited me."

Now that, _that_ was a lie. Heimdall could hear it, she was sure, the way her words rang false and her pulse quickened ever-so-slightly. Would he call her on it, scold her for her lies and ask for truth? Or would he, hearing no malice in the lie, allow her to play her game?

"Far be it for me to defy a daughter of Odin," he said after a moment, and she smiled wide as he slid off his helm and place it gently over her head. The expression turned to surprise as she realized the weight of it.

"How is it that you stay upright, with such a weight as this?" She could barely see, and it seemed as if it would tip off her head if she did not hold it on. "Your head is _enormous_ ," she swore, as if it were somehow a deficiency on his part that his helm did not fit her.

"I am not _always_ upright," he pointed out, "though I have heard such accusations before."

"You are a _flirt_ , Heimdall!" Loki giggled. "You ought to be ashamed, such a filthy old man."

"As ever, little Silvertongue, your flatteries do not work on me. I believe your trial has gone on long enough." He held out a hand to retrieve his helm, but Loki took a quick step back, holding it where it was.

"I would demand a price for its return," she said, a glint in her green eyes.

"And what is your price?"

"A kiss," she said – quickly, such that the words escaped before she could think better of it and stop them.

" _Loki_ ," he said, and though his tone was one of warning, the sound of her name on his lips only encouraged her.

"It is a very small thing," she said. "Hardly a price at all."

"Do not tempt fate so, Odinsdóttir."

"The winds of fate are cruel – but are you not the Wind Shelter?"

"I can be no shelter for you."

"Cannot, or will not? But no, it is no matter. I do not ask to tempt fate; I ask only for a kiss. Is such a trifling thing truly such a danger? Shall my tongue spark against your teeth, do you suppose?" Loki was prodding at him with her words, with the challenge in her eyes.

"I will not pay for what is mine," he said instead of answering; and before Loki could realize what had happened, he had taken his helm back, astonishingly swift for all that he was so often still. She yelped in outrage and tried to take it back – but he held it out of her reach, leaving her to huff indignantly.

"Miser," she hissed petulantly. "It is miserly, to refuse me such a trifle." He reached out to tilt her chin higher, and she glowered at him. She could not tell, as he looked at her, that he was listening for the other Asgardians – her parents, their siblings, the Warriors Three.

"My kisses," he said finally, his voice pitched low, "are no trifle."

Her breath caught, and she wondered if this was its own kind of magic; if this brought warmth where her own magic took it away, made her feel as if her blood was boiling in her veins. "Your boasting does not impress me, Heimdall."

"You forget: I can tell when you lie." His lips met hers so gently it was as if she'd been spun from glass, and she marveled that his mouth seemed so hot against her own as to burn. A sound of pleasure escaped her, and as he began to pull away, she acted instantly and instinctively. She threw her arms around his neck, claimed his mouth more forcefully with her own and clung to him – and when Heimdall tried to stand, he lifted Loki off the ground along with him. He made a strange noise, and she heard him drop his helm to place steadying hands upon her hips. It pleased her when she realized the noise had been amusement, that she had tasted his laughter. When she finally released him, she ran her fingers over his armor as he set her back down.

"You see?" she said breathlessly. "A trifling thing."

"It is astounding," he said, as he traced the curve of her lower lip with his thumb, "that a mouth so full of lies can be so sweet."

She smiled impishly. "You think I am sweet, Heimdall?"

"You must satisfy yourself with that, Odinsdóttir," he said more seriously, as he knelt to retrieve his much-abused helm.

"You think much of yourself, if you think I am satisfied _already_ ," she teased, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch before his expression turned grave again.

"I am not for you," he said instead, standing and donning his helm once again.

"And who are you," she asked haughtily, "to tell a princess what is hers?"

" _You_ are not for _me_ ," he corrected, as if she would take that any better.

"I most certainly am not," she agreed, surprising him. "I am _Loki Odinsdóttir_. I am not to be _owned_. Do you think I am a horse? Though you may ride me anyway, if you insist."

"Loki–"

"I will settle for another kiss, if I am moving too quickly for your virginal personage."

Heimdall covered his mouth with his hand. "We really must not," he urged quietly, rather than protesting her characterization. "Odin will be looking for you, soon."

"Do you wish me to return safely from battle?" Loki asked suddenly.

"Of course," he said with a slight incline of his head.

"Then you must promise me a kiss on my return," she declared with a grin.

"You would fall in battle to spite me?" he asked, though as soon as he had said it, he knew the answer. "You shall have your kiss," he answered, "but I warn you, Loki: this will not end well."

"Could we call ourselves Asgardians," she asked, as she turned to walk away, "if we refused to fight a losing battle?"


	4. Fourth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah, But It Was Funny, Right?" - A Loki Autobiography

"That helm is absurd."

Loki smiled, not bothering to open her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face as she lay in the grass. "Your jealousy is unbecoming, Heimdall," she said. "I have offered to make you a helm with better horns, you know."

"I recall you having done so once before," he said as he settled in beside her. "I do not recall the results being a suitable replacement for the one I wear currently."

Loki grinned at the memory of the sad little thing. "I was but a child, then. I could make a much better one, now – one with a fine set of horns."

"You would simply retaliate with another helm, yet more ridiculous than the one you wear now, until the horns were larger than you." Loki gave a nod at this, as it _did_ sound like something she'd do. "And unlike _you_ , little Silvertongue, _I_ have no need to compensate."

Loki paused and considered this. "Heimdall," she said finally, "are you suggesting that I feel inadequate in the size of my genitals? If so, I have a number of follow-up questions."

"You distract me from my purpose, Loki."

"Your purpose did not lie beneath my skirts?" She cracked open one eye to look at him sitting beside her, and she itched to get beneath his armor. "What else could make the guardian of Asgard leave the Bifröst?"

"It was a cruel jest you played on Thor."

Loki closed her eyes again, and grinned at the memory of Thor dressed as a man, pursued by a serving wench. "Not _so_ cruel," she protested. "I think her new wife is quite comely."

"Things have been well between you," Heimdall pressed. "What slight could have raised your ire so?"

"It is not a matter of _slights_ or of _ire_ ," Loki scoffed. "It was funny – was that not reason enough?"

"Reason enough to torment and humiliate your sister?"

"You exaggerate," Loki said, waving a dismissive hand even as she considered the notion that he was correct. "I do not think that it is so humiliating to be found a paragon of masculinity, nor to be desired by a lovely and willing woman."

"You twist words, Silvertongue."

Loki sat upright and scowled, staring ahead and pulling her knees to her chest. "What do you want me to say, Heimdall? What can I tell you that you do not already know? Would you like me to say that I have been wicked? Would you like me to apologize, to claim that I meant no harm, that I am not wicked at the core of me? For you would know the lie of it, Heimdall, would know it as well as I do. I have ever been the snake in the grass, and I will not apologize for my scales."

"You are a wicked woman," he agreed, "but it is not for your wickedness that I despair. It is your foolishness, Loki, your tempestuousness that grieves me. You surrender to the moment, and so your wickedness hurts none more than you." He pulled her into his lap, and she allowed it. "It pains me," he said, as he removed her helm, "to see you hurt yourself this way."

"Another man might have tried to reassure me," she observed sardonically, "tried to tell me that I do not give myself enough credit. But Heimdall, sweet and bright, he tells me that I am not being wicked _properly_." She hoped that he could hear the love that held her heart in a vice, the gratitude that prickled at her eyes. But, of course he could. He was _Heimdall_.

"You are clever, princess, entirely too clever and not at all wise." She watched as he set his helm beside hers in the grass, sighed contentedly as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"But you admit that I am clever," she murmured, and she could tell without looking that he was trying not to smile.

"Your temper will be the end of us, if you do not learn to control it." He sounded almost resigned, and for a moment she despised him for his wisdom. How dare he be so reasonable, when the love of him drove her mad? If only he did not always say the right thing, she could loathe him and care not a whit what he thought.

It was almost perfect, being driven to a tantrum by his sincere wish that she throw no more. The punchline was almost enough to be worth it. If Loki restrained herself, it was only because it was not the sort of joke that would make Heimdall laugh.

"Snake-charmer," she accused without malice. He kissed at the side of her neck, his beard tickling at her skin. "Will you be punishing me, I wonder, for all my wicked ways?"

"For your foolishness, perhaps," he said into her skin, "but only if you ask, Princess."

"A cruel trick, to make me beg."

"You need never beg," he corrected. "You need only to ask."

"Is it not much the same? Can you not hear my heart's desire?" Loki ground her hips backward – to little effect, with his armor still between them.

"It is not a matter of what I _can_ hear, so much as what I want to."

"A snake-charmer, and a filthy old man. You would have me kneeling at your feet, crying for your attentions as you stand guard at the Bifrost." She waited for his rejoinder, and frowned when it did not come. Loki twisted in his lap, and saw that he seemed to be staring at the sky again. It took a moment to notice his half-smile, to realize that he looked at nothing but his own mind's eye. " _Heimdall_ ," she gasped, scandalized. "Don't _imagine_ it! Here _I_ am meant to be the wicked one, and you sit here imagining Odin's daughter a wanton."

"There is not much imagining to be done, when she sits atop me all afire with lust." At the look of shock and indignation on her face, even Heimdall couldn't help but grin – wide and toothy and incredibly rare, lovely enough to distract Loki from her outrage.

"How much time do we have?" she asked, and he traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips.

"Enough," he said, and Loki laughed.

"Now _you_ lie," she said, "for it is _never_ enough."

Something mournful passed over him, then, as he took her face in his hands and gently kissed her forehead. "I will have to be," he said sadly. "You cannot know, Loki, how badly I wish that I could be enough."

"What is this sudden sorrow?" she asked, masking her fear with good humor. She pressed her forehead to his, searching for answers in the limitless depths of his eyes. "You _are_ enough, Hiemdall, insatiable though I may be. You know, don't you, that my heart never strays? There are no secrets between us, not of heart or mind or flesh. I give you my _all_ , do not ever doubt that."

"I do not question your devotion, for I know you better than even you could."

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" she teased, and then he kissed her more forcefully than was usual.

"Many things," he breathed, before kissing her again. "But not today, sweet little Silvertongue."

Her questions were lost, in sunlight and soft caresses and calloused hands.


	5. Fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to play a game with Loki is like trying to play a game of Calvinball, except that one is generally never warned they are playing. Heimdall has become very good at winning, regardless.

Heimdall Golden-toothed was a mountain of a man. Stronger than most Asgardians, stronger certainly than Loki. A will of iron, and a spine of steel. Loki knew, intellectually, that Heimdall did not sway when pushed unless swaying was what he wished to do.

That didn't make it any less satisfying to push against his chest and watch him fall into his seat, to climb astride his legs as if she had truly trapped him.

"You are at my mercy, Bent Stick," she taunted, tracing the curve of his mouth with her tongue.

"I _would_ be," he agreed, "if you could remove my armor."

Loki scowled and tugged halfheartedly at his helm, at the seams of his armor. "Foolish magic, this. What if your hands were injured? You would be trapped in a golden prison, unable even to piss."

"I do so love your way with words. I shall remove my helm, if you tell me what has you in such poor mood."

"Poor mood!" she exclaimed, as he slid off his helm and set it aside. "Here I have practically mounted you, and you accuse me of poor mood! You and your wretched eyes, to see such trivialities."

"One need not be all-seeing to notice that you only play this game when something has angered you, Loki. Answer, and perhaps we can negotiate my vambraces." He held up his arms, and she considered them sourly.

"You are a poor sport, that does not even _pretend_ to be at my mercy." She sighed, running her nails lightly over his scalp. "Father is simply being foolish – _again_."

"And how has Odin wronged you today, little one?"

"He has not _wronged_ me," she said with a roll of her eyes. "And if you want the answer to _that_ , I must see your arms first. One for one is the game, yes? It is only fair." Heimdall conceded, working to remove them entirely too quickly to suit Loki's current mood. She'd hoped he'd put up more of a fight – though not too much. "Father cannot see how _disastrous_ it would be, to allow Thor the throne. She has ever been his favorite, I am _always_ second-best. He is too distracted by the goodness in her to see the ill in her actions, too distracted by my wickedness to see goodness in mine. I have tried speaking to Mother, but even she cannot speak ill of Thor – love me though she may."

"And what are these qualities that make Thor so ill-suited to rule?" Heimdall asked, but Loki tapped meaningfully on his breastplate.

"You are too clothed for such questions, prisoner-mine." She stood, giving him room to undress further, and began to pace the room. "I will not say she is a dullard, for I know how you will scold me for such things. But she does not _think_ , not beyond what thinking can be done with her hammer. She is prideful and rash, impetuous and quick to strike where a strike is not needed. She tries to solve all problems with battle, knowing that battle is where she shines. Her lack of tact would start _wars_ , and she would see no ill in it until too late."

"So you think she has too much pride, too little tact and too little patience?" Heimdall asked, looking entirely too alluring in his padded undershirt.

"Why are you still wearing pants?" Loki demanded, rather than answering. "And you needn't bother continuing, I know _exactly_ what you mean to say. But I _know_ my flaws, I know and I despair of them, though I may not always try to make them right. I do not suggest that I am perfect for the throne – I know that I am not. Even Father is not perfect in his rule. It is only that I know – I _know_ – that though he dangles the throne before me, it will never be mine so long as it might be Thor's. I only wish that I could show him! There at least should be some question, it is not _right_ for him to be so certain. I've as much of a right to the throne as she, I _demand_ to be considered on equal footing."

Loki's gesticulations, ruminations, and wild pacing about the room were interrupted with a yelp as Heimdall lifted her into the air, throwing her over his shoulder. She hadn't even noticed that he'd left his chair.

" _Heimdall!_ " Loki exclaimed, kicking her legs uselessly. "You are a _terrible_ prisoner! Resume imprisonment at once."

"You have lost the game, little Silvertongue – negotiating with prisoners, failing to watch for escape attempts? You did not even bother to tie me down, Odinsdóttir."

"I have _not_ ," she insisted. "You have simply failed to play correctly."

"Your idea of playing correctly is allowing you to win," he pointed out.

"And what prize will you claim for your ill-won victory?" she asked, feigning anger rather than excitement.

"I will give you the benefit of my experience, and show you how to play this game _properly_ ," he said, and she laughed with delight as he released her into her bed. He pinned her down with the weight of him, and his kiss was intoxicating enough to distract from the fact that he had offered her no advice.

"Will you talk to him?" she asked breathlessly, as his hands slid under her skirts. "You have seen the truth of my words with your own eyes – can you not convey those observations, as Father's right eye?"

"Would it not be suspicious, for me to champion your cause?" he asked in turn, watching her back arch as deft fingers worked to divert her attentions.

"I hardly think–" she began, before her words were choked off with a gasp. It was some moments before she was able to collect her thoughts enough to speak again. "I doubt that even _Father_ would take your cautioning against Thor's ascension as evidence that we are lovers," she said, before gasping again. "Oh, you _wretched_ man."

"I will do what I can," he acquiesced, watching her squirm. "Though I hardly see why I ought, when you show me such little gratitude for my troubles."

"Let me up," she offered, "and I will show you _proper_ gratitude. Or are you too clever to negotiate with prisoners?"

"For you, Loki," Heimdall said, "I am the worst kind of fool."


	6. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want to make an omelette, sometimes you have to freeze a few lovers and have a sibling sent into exile. That's how omelettes work, right?

"Do tell me, Heimdall: where has your sister gone? Where might I find the Warriors Three? Or will you tell me that you have lost sight of them?"

Loki's voice was cold. It had been cold since the day Odin had entered Odinsleep, since Thor had been exiled to Midgard. Heimdall could hear that she was distant, could see that something had gone wrong – but what it was, even he could not see. Could it be that power had already corrupted her so, this brief taste of the throne?

"They have gone to Midgard," he explained calmly, "to retrieve your sister."

"And how did they accomplish such a thing," she asked, calmer still, "when I asked Heimdall to watch the Bifröst?"

"You asked me to watch it," he agreed, "and so I watched."

Loki smiled, not the warm or delighted smile to which he had become accustomed, but something thin-lipped and frozen and new. "You twist words, Heimdall," she murmured, and he heard something he had not expected: shattering. As if she had wrapped herself in ice, and in that moment it had shattered all to pieces. Infinite depths of disappointment and rage and sorrow seemed to pour out of her in waves, even as she stood unmoving, expressionless. "Have you no loyalty?"

"My loyalty to Asgard never wavers," he said instead of answering, but Loki did not overlook this as she once might have.

"And this differs greatly from loyalty to me, I suppose," she said, and ice crystals seemed to form on her eyelashes. What had become of the girl who teased him so sweetly? "What of your oath to me, Heimdall?"

"I have broken no oath," he said truthfully, and her smile grew tighter still.

"No – I suppose you have not. You have been modest, Heimdall, to say that _I_ am clever with words." She gave Gungnir a lazy twirl ill-fitting the dignity of Odin's favored weapon, and he watched for any sign that she was about to attack. "Do you recall the first oath you made to me?" she asked, eyes on the tip of the spear rather than meeting Heimdall's. " _Loki Odinsdóttir shall never know my blade_ – was that it? Knowing, even then, that Loki Odinsdóttir was a lie."

He felt a chill around his boots, and realized too late that she had encased his feet in ice, frozen him to the floor. When her eyes again met his, they were red. He reached for his sword, but she threw out a hand and a wave of ice with it, freezing him still. "Loki–" he began, but she silenced him Gungnir, pressing the tip of the spear to his throat.

"Loki Laufeysdóttir – that is the truth of it. Did you beg him not to take me, having heard what I would become? Did you take it as a challenge, the taming of a monster?" She smiled, all sharp edges and emptiness.

"You hurt only yourself, Loki," Heimdall said quietly, as the spear dug into his skin to draw blood. Loki hissed wordlessly, outraged beyond any more coherent expression, and the ice crawled upward to consume him utterly. She withdrew Gungnir and watched his eyes – still aware, still watching, still listening.

"If I hurt myself," she snarled, "it is only because you have given me so many weapons with which to do so." She stepped closer, running her fingertips over the ice that held his face. "If you had only _trusted_ me, Heimdall," she sighed. "It will all work out in the end, you know. Can you not see that? Can you not trust that my ends will justify my means?" Her eyes grew distant, faded back to green as she stared through him. "With Thor gone, they will not be able to compare us any longer – they will see me as I am, and not as I appear in her shadow. Thor, no longer coddled, will be forced to face the mistakes she has made. I will divert the Jotun to a plan under _my_ control, and in so doing will eliminate Odin's greatest threat. Do you see? I am wicked, but goodness can come of it. I will make things right – more than they have ever been."

She half-smiled at the frozen god, stepping away and straightening her skirts. "Even now, I cannot help but tell you everything. A poor habit, I'm afraid." There was something warmer in her demeanor now, having taken the situation out of Heimdall's hands. She could pretend, now, that he might not have betrayed her; could pretend that she had frozen him only moments before his apology. She was wicked, again, and he was only helpless Heimdall, who could do naught but stand and watch.

"If you are sweet," she said, with an impish grin at his frozen form, "if you apologize _properly_ for all that you have done, I may yet forgive you, you know."

She wanted, so badly, to be able to forgive him.


End file.
